


Another Skull on the Mantlepiece

by saveawallflower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Razors, Reichenbach Fall, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2319263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveawallflower/pseuds/saveawallflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life after Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Skull on the Mantlepiece

**Author's Note:**

> POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING  
> This was the first fic I ever wrote I'm sorry

The harsh drill of his alarm clock dragged John from his peaceful hibernation. And in that split second, he forgot about Sherlock. About the call. About his coat; billowing out behind him as he plummeted towards the ground. John’s heartbeat increased; mirroring its actions in that brief, horrendous moment. The realisation that he was alive slowly washed over John like an agonisingly cold shower; it felt like Sherlock had pulled John with him when he jumped to his death.

   But the world does not stop for anyone; even if they can make tragic events into similes. John firmly planted his feet on the floor beside his bed and forced himself up. No psychosomatic limp. Just a dull ache that wound its way around his chest, crushing his insides. A sly tendril of pain found its way to John’s throat and he let out a choked sob, which echoed eerily in the empty flat. John cursed himself. He had given up on crying weeks ago.

   Food all tasted the same now; television and radio became part of the monotonous hum of a London with Sherlock Holmes. Without stimulation from Sherlock, John’s senses felt numb. Like he had taken too many painkillers. John laughed humourlessly at the irony of that idea. Pain was the only thing he could feel.

     Mycroft had once said: “Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield.” Now John saw an empty battlefield wherever he went; the fight had been lost. He saw people as Sherlock did- plain in comparison to the World’s only consulting detective. Time spent with Sherlock could undoubtedly be lonely; time spent without him didn’t feel like living.

   Join shuffled to the bathroom, feeling old beyond his years, and started to run a bath. He no longer saw any point in keeping up his appearance; living a socially acceptable life, but he kept trying, in vain, to take his mind off Sherlock. The light above his mirror illuminated his despondent face, highlighting his bloodshot eyes and frown lines. Something glinted in his peripheral vision, contrasting with his dull, greying skin. Razor blades. His aunt had sent him a new razor for Christmas.

   John glanced back at his reflection. The man that stood there was not the John Watson that tucked his sister into bed every night. Not the one who stayed up late working to get his degree so he could have a bright future. Not the one who forgot various women’s names because he was too distracted by his brilliantly-minded flatmate. He was just a shell of a man now; a skeleton. He shed his dressing gown and submerged himself in the hot soapy water, placing the blades on the side of the bath.

   John had to admit he had somewhat romanticised his suicide. He thought of it as a painless performance, the ultimate dedication to the man he loved. This was his big moment. But there was no-one to see it. No-one that he cared about, anyway. He winced slightly as the blade sliced through his skin, but was soon distracted by the impressive spurts of blood colouring the water. Nothing compared to the pain of losing Sherlock.

   John chuckled sadistically. Afghanistan. He survived a war and he couldn’t survive in everyday life. As he slid further down in the tub, drifting out of consciousness, John could’ve sworn that he felt Sherlock’s presence. His limbs wrapped around him, softening the pain, holding his hand through it all.  “I’m coming for you, you bastard. You can’t leave me that easily,” John mumbled. And, with a final contented smile, he was gone.


End file.
